Page 10 of The Dis-Graced
Drake
“Your ten o’clock canceled,” Edna says as she sets down a stack of newspapers and magazines onto my desk.
People try to schedule a sit-down with me years in advance, so I’m not used to anyone canceling. Fortunately, I have so much work to do that this is a welcome surprise.
I drain the rest of my coffee and grab a thick magazine from the top of the stack. It has a picture of Kelcey Kramer on the cover, who I once dated for several months right out of college. We had precious little in common, but it did ignite the tabloids’ interest in me, to my great consternation.
“That’s good. I could use some more time freed up,” I reply back to Edna.
“Devon is in town and staying a few floors below you,” she says nonchalantly.
I slam the magazine down onto my desk and exhale a sigh.
I haven’t seen my brother Devon in two years, and to be honest, I haven’t missed him much. After one too many visits by law enforcement, my mother saw fit to send him away to get him the help that he so desperately needed. What he’s doing here now is beyond me.
“Does he have a sober coach with him?” I ask, trying my best not to speak too harshly to my aging secretary.
“Not that he indicated. He mentioned that he was going to stop by the office today.”
“Jesus Christ—when?”
“I don’t know, I can forward the voicemail message to you if you’d like.”
“No, that’s okay. It’s not like he’ll show up before noon, so I have plenty of time to prepare for the bomb to hit.”
“Very well. Oh, and one more thing, there’s a woman waiting outside your office.”
“A woman? Must be Grace,” I mutter.
“She looks rather peculiar if you ask me. I stopped her just before she knocked and told her I had to give you your morning briefing.”
I’d be lying if I said I haven’t been thinking about her. In fact, one of my favorite new daydreams is her leaning over my desk, taking her glasses off, pressing the frame to her lips, and lecturing to me about...God, anything. The weather, sales, Star Trek versus Star Wars.
“Well, if that’s all you have for me, send her on in.”
“Yes, Mr. Dallanger.”
As Edna leaves, I sift through the various newspapers, taking note of the headlines:
Billionaire Tech Genius Discusses Space Travel
Warehouse Burns Before Raid
Fashion Launch Postponed After Fur Scandal
Dis-Graced Journalist Spotted in New York City
Dammit!
A picture of Grace going into the lobby of the apartment I secured for her is plastered on the newspaper. To most, this wouldn’t be a big deal, but for a man like me, it’s quite problematic.
After being caught in bed with the man she was supposed to be doing a piece on, any association with her would be toxic, leading to all sorts of unsavory questions. The work I plan to do with her, or rather, the docuseries I’m having her do on ALAN, isn’t supposed to be announced until well after it’s complete, fully edited, and ready to deliver. I was banking on the time between now and the project’s release to allow for headlines to die down and people to lose interest, but if word of her movement is already getting out, there’s little doubt that a connection between her and myself will be established if she’s seen entering any of the buildings I own or operate out of.
And, of course, I have to wonder: Did Grace alert the paparazzi to her whereabouts?
My office door opens and in steps a woman in a long black dress spanning from her neck to her ankles with what appears to be a white apron over the top of it. What really pushes the outfit over the edge of insanity, though, is the bonnet.
Why the hell is Edna letting strange people into my office? She’s getting up there in years, but she’s never made this kind of blunder before.
